


The Chemistry of Reluctance

by DidiTheDragon (fuckgravityimdavidtennantshair)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, im sorry, oblivious jocks, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 18:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckgravityimdavidtennantshair/pseuds/DidiTheDragon
Summary: Yahaba Shigeru is many things.First and foremost, he is an athlete and a ray of sunshine. He is enthusiastic and determined, and he is unhappy about the fact that he has not been chosen as his university team's starting setter.Right now, though, Yahaba is angry at certain homophobic authorities, and he is also, as luck may have it, in need of a date for a banquet.Just like his nemesis, Shirabu Kenjirou.





	The Chemistry of Reluctance

**Author's Note:**

> hooooo boye
> 
> sorry about um. my absence. and stuff. Anyway this was written as part of the yahashira server's Christmas challenge, and I promise, the rest of this little story is on its way. in the meantime: thanks for the inspiration, em, I love you with all my heart and soul.
> 
> this story is not beta'd, and I'm happy about any and all feedback!

It might have been spite. Or maybe it was desperation – though spite was a far, far more likely reason to have Yahaba pounding on his arch-nemesis’ door in the middle of the night.

Unlikely were the events leading up to this frantic situation, but since Watari had always liked disturbing Yahaba’s peace and quiet, he should have expected something like this, really. It had been with a smug look in his eyes, harbinger of a death sentence, that his roommate had announced his successful conquest, as well as the discovery of his beautiful date having a _lovely_ friend – _“seriously dude, you should see her”_ – who would be absolutely _thrilled_ to accompany Yahaba to the college athletics winter banquet. Because, who wouldn’t be.

This, of course, had left Yahaba stuck in somewhat of a difficult situation. It wasn’t that he didn’t like girls, or even this girl in particular, no, he was sure she was a sweet one, but Yahaba had planned on using the opportunity to bring a male date to officially out himself as bisexual. No big deal, of course, except it kind of was. A colossal one, really.

Yahaba had never had a particularly intense romantic interest in anyone, but he did know the feeling of attraction, the tug in his chest when someone attractive smiled his way, or even the overwhelming need to impress anyone good-looking who would glance in his direction twice, just for the sake of it. The feeling had never been limited by any sort of binary, and in a way, he was grateful for that. He wasn’t ashamed of it at all. He did know, however, that it could turn out to be a big deal for others. Namely, certain people who could decide they didn’t want a queer person on their high-ranked university volleyball team and cost him his scholarship.

A few weeks ago, he’d made up his mind: He would find a nice guy as a date for the banquet, a cute classmate of his, maybe, and show him off to the board, to everyone in charge, as a way of saying _fuck you, this is who I am, kiss my ass if you don’t like it_. And he’d been prepared to stick with the plan, too, no matter what it could cost him, he really had.

But with time came doubts, and those doubts had clawed their way deep into his brain and started nesting there, like a bunch of anxiety-carrying parasites. He really, really did not want to lose his team. He wasn’t even in the starting line-up, he was mostly a bench warmer, but that didn’t matter. He still got to play. And mostly, he got to cheer his teammates on, motivate them from the sidelines, and while it stung, it was almost enough.

It was most definitely enough to second-guess himself over his little decision to put it all at risk. He wanted to come out, not because there was a relationship he was tired of hiding or because all this pretending left him exhausted and sad – his usual self didn’t waste much time hiding his identity, after all. But that didn’t matter, because – as Oikawa had said – to straight people, his flirting could easily look like a joke, which had stung, but he knew it was true, so he hadn’t argued, and he was not interested in any kind of relationship anyway, since those were time and energy consuming, neither of which he had a lot to spare of between classes and the court, and it wasn’t like anyone had caught his eye during his time at university anyway. The main reason for his decision was, as with a lot of things, pure, boiling spite. He was earnestly sick of girls and guys sucking face everywhere, his teammates’ unbearable chatter about this hot girl they’d slept with at some party or other, the complete lack of consequence for being openly straight when just admitting you like your own sex’s facial bone structure could get you kicked from all sorts of clubs.

So, Yahaba hadn’t even begun to think about the change he might make, the dent in the university’s internalized homophobia he could cause by his open rebellion, he was simply egoistically tired of the heteronormative way that life had always been portrayed. He wanted to be able to talk about kissing a dude, without getting a _look_ for it.

Watari, bless him, had misunderstood Yahaba’s external crisis – _had he been that obvious?_ – as a superficial stress about not being able to find a date for the banquet. Thus, he had taken it upon himself to ask his very own date if she maybe had a friend that might be interested, a sweet girl, who was funny and witty and attractive and just enough to tip Yahaba over the edge. He wanted to be grateful for his friend’s efforts, he really did, but somehow, his set-up date had just reminded him that, even though he had come out to Watari in high school, he was still sort-of-straight in his eyes, would be in everybody’s, and he didn’t want people to think about him half-assed, in any way. As if he’d even try to half-ass heterosexuality. For a terrifying minute, he thought that he could never be seen as who he is, no matter whom the fuck he’d bring to the banquet, regardless of whom he’d eventually marry, and that thought had made him pretty much lose his shit. 

That was how he ended up doing the dumbest thing he’d ever done, putting to shame all those long party nights resulting in awful hangovers and stupid teenage shenanigans with his friends that had eventually gotten him grounded for weeks on end.

Shirabu Kenjirou, Yahaba’s team’s starting setter, was as menacing as he was irritating. Having started at the same university in the same year, the two had been enemies from the start. They were constantly bickering on the court, avoiding each other at all costs off of it, and their teammates put great efforts into keeping them apart at all times. Miraculously, it never seemed to work for very long, as the two of them ended up in a heated debate about something entirely inconsequential full of teasing and verbal hair-pulling almost every single day. Yahaba had thought of apologizing to his teammates for their little rivalry more than once, but that apology should involve Shirabu in some way, which means he should ask his fellow setter for some sort of input or participation, even, and no matter how he played it out in his head, Yahaba could not, for the life of him, pin down a scenario where Shirabu didn’t end up majorly pissed at him. For whatever reason. _But what’s new?_

Every time they interacted, it was as if they were drawn to each other by Discordia and they were acting as her two favorite playthings. They might be on two different sides of the court, practicing entirely separate from each other, when one of them would make an offhand comment about his own technique, which the other would hear, and the two would inevitably wind up arguing about its usefulness on the court, and which one of them could pull it off better, and then they’d try it out to see who could do it better, and they’d see one of their teammates rolling their eyes and muttering something about a “stupid dick-measuring contest”, which both of them would pointedly ignore in favor of proving to the other that they were _definitely_ the setter more deserving of the starting spot the following year.

It was a nice routine, really. Not because Yahaba particularly enjoyed being beaten by Shirabu roughly half the time, but because having a routine was comforting. Routines made life pleasantly predictable.

Yahaba couldn’t have had predicted Shirabu smiling to himself in the locker room a few weeks back, when he had thought everyone had already left, and he had called someone named _Taichi_ in private, and told him through a that little smile about how _“some cute guy asked him out”._ Yahaba had forgotten his phone in the locker room that day and had been confronted with a surprising truth when he had come back to look for it. When he had found out that apparently, Shirabu liked guys, too, he had felt an odd sort of relief, which, having thought about it for many sleepless nights, hadn’t been odd at all. Obviously, finding out he wasn’t the only volleyball player to be something other than straight was great news. What he hadn’t managed to explain to himself, though, was the way he had been acting particularly viciously toward Shirabu at practice the next day, after remembering his little smile, talking about having a date.

He’d never seen Shirabu smile, before. It made him even more irritating.

Eventually, Yahaba managed to chalk it up to jealousy. How come Yahaba didn’t seem interested in relationships, just like Yahaba, but even taking it a step farther, not _flirting_ with anyone, just nonchalantly going about his day without interacting with many people at all – and _still_ manage to snag a date, while Yahaba was stuck alone, dateless, hopeless…

It was probably his looks. Yahaba knew…, Shirabu’s intense hazel eyes and ridiculous haircut and athlete’s physique played well in his favor, and Yahaba had to begrudgingly admit that everything about him was rather good-looking, but so was Yahaba himself, god damnit. He was fucking _adorable_. Someone was bound to recognize that and want to take him out. Eventually. 

All jealousy aside, Yahaba had only just noticed that he had stopped knocking on Shirabu’s door, lost in thought, when reality came crashing down on him. Holy _fuck_.

In his panic, he had, for some reason, thought it a good idea to just run up to Shirabu’s dorm – the location of which he knew because he’d seen it on his team introduction sheet from the beginning of the semester – to seek help for his current situation. What outcome he had expected just five minutes ago, he did not know. Right now, he stood frozen in front of Shirabu’s door and debated whether he should just run away or suck it up. He had knocked for quite a bit, he guessed, because just then, Shirabu himself emerged, bleary-eyed with his hair sticking up in every direction and expression utterly furious.

Shirabu yelled, “What the absolute fuck-“ at the same time as Yahaba blurted out a panicked “I’m _so_ sorry-“ when another student living on the same floor walked by, clearly pissed off at something Yahaba did not want to think about, and snapped at them to keep it the fuck down. Well, then.

He was about to apologize once more, more quietly and sensibly, he hoped, when Shirabu pulled him into his room with a stormy expression. For a second, Yahaba was reasonably sure that he was about to be murdered.

“My apologies, senpai. We won’t be bothering you again.” This, Yahaba noted, was directed at the guy who had stopped to glare at the pair of them, and with a start, Yahaba realized that he was probably looking at the building’s DA. He gulped. Shirabu currently looked ready to kill someone – Yahaba, for instance – or cry, or sleep, and he was still clutching Yahaba’s arm, which was starting to hurt, if he was being honest, though he was even more bothered by the fact that, after shooting the DA a tiny apologetic smile, Shirabu closed the door gently and let go of Yahaba, and now Yahaba was a hundred and one percent sure that his last words had been “I’m so sorry”. He had even meant them. Shirabu stepped a little farther away from Yahaba and levelled him with a glare that could put global warming to shame.

Goodbye, cruel world. 

“Okay, well, let me explain.” Yahaba licked his lips. He really, really didn’t want Shirabu in his business, but Yahaba had kind of forced his business on him, and his original intention had literally been to drag Shirabu into his business, so really, Yahaba should talk to his therapist about that panic-induced spontaneity of his. Shirabu was still glaring.

After ten second of Yahaba collecting his thoughts, Shirabu shattered the process by stating, “Normally, when you try to make me look bad, you’re able to keep it on the court, at least.” To his credit, he had not strangled Yahaba yet, which he decided to take as a good sign. He still looked majorly pissed, though a crack of something else was slowly starting to shine through. Yahaba didn’t know Shirabu well enough privately to put a name to the expression, but it felt dangerous.

“Well, yeah, because you’re not usually a little bitch off the court,” came his very wise and mature reply, because, really, who was Yahaba if not an impulsive bastard. Yeah, he was aware how it made him look ridiculous sometimes, and no, he did not care.

Now, Shirabu seemed a little amused, and Yahaba had to hold back an audible sigh of relief at that. Because it meant that Shirabu did not look as murderous as he had before.

“Okay, I’ll humor you,” Shirabu said, and that dangerous glint in his eyes was back. “I haven’t seen you act this twitchy and anxious at a time that wasn’t right before a game. A game,” he added, because he really was a little shit, “that you would inevitably sit out.” He didn’t need to further prompt Yahaba for an explanation. There was either going to be an explanation, or further substance-less banter, and Yahaba could choose which one it would be. They both knew that they could go back and forth like that for hours on end, and if either party ever enjoyed it, neither planned to mention that.

“Well.” Yahaba cleared his throat. He hadn’t thought this through at all. “I know, that – well I don’t know, per se, I kind of assumed, because, you see, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, or anything, I just kind of happened to be there, and you were, like – well, um, I happened to catch that you said something, uh-“ He broke off when he saw Yahaba take on that Freddy-Krueger-esque expression of his, again. He sucked in his breath and braced for impact. “I overheard you talking about going out with a guy.”

Judging from Shirabu’s stunned face, all slack mouth and shot-up eyebrows, he had expected this conversation to go in an entirely different direction. Or, maybe, he hadn’t known what to expect at all, but it was certainly not this. Yahaba couldn’t blame him.

Shirabu closed his mouth, opened it again, and closed it; Yahaba thought, bemusedly, that he looked like both a deer in headlights, and a fish. A fish in headlights. _This was really not the time for stupid thoughts like that._ Before Shirabu could say a word, after what felt like hours but must have been half a minute, at most, Yahaba cut in, “This was a bad start to this conversation. I, um. I really just wanted to ask if you had a date for the banquet, already.” Yahaba could have easily apologized again and sneaked back to his own dorm, but really, he was already here, and he desperately needed some reassurance, and at this point, he didn’t even care if he had to force it out of his nemesis.

Impossibly, Shirabu looked even more alarmed now. “Is this your way of asking a guy out?” And, oh. _OH._ “Because, not that I am the most experienced person when it comes to dating, but that is, decidedly, not the way to start doing so. There are – there are even online courses for that, you know.”

This was turning out to be the longest and most awkward conversation Yahaba had ever had to suffer through, in his entire life. Counting his coming-out to his parents, which had been particularly excruciating. “I was not asking you out.” He didn’t even allow his mind to go there. He – Shirabu – no. God, _fuck_. “That was misleading. See, you need to give me time to collect my thoughts. Hold on.” _Use your words, idiot_. He needed to get out of this situation, before his treacherous mouth made it even worse. Before him, Shirabu had gone perfectly still. Yahaba wasn’t sure if he was just giving him the time he needed, or if he was as much at a loss for words as Yahaba himself currently felt.

Heaving a deep breath, Yahaba started again. This time, he felt a little surer of himself. “Okay, well. I wanted to ask, since – and forgive me if I am being presumptuous – you are into guys, you would take a guy with you to the banquet. Because I,” and Yahaba needed to steel himself for this – he had never come out to anyone that wasn’t a close friend – “was planning on doing just that. Bringing a guy, I mean. As a date.” Now, Shirabu looked a little more incredulous, because certainly, he knew what that statement insinuated. Still, he stayed silent so that Yahaba could say his part. And internally, he was very grateful for that. “You noticed how I was kinda out of it earlier.” It wasn’t a question. He had probably looked like a ruffled chicken, out in the dim light of the hallway, ready to implode at any second. “Yeah, well, I wanted to bring a guy, to out myself, which is stupid, I realize, and I really just wanted to know if you, yourself, have prepared yourself to deal with… all of it.”

Yahaba had forced himself not to trail off at the end, but he’d done the next best thing. It didn’t matter, since they both knew what it meant.

Slowly, deliberately, Shirabu spoke, and Yahaba could feel the carefulness with which he had chosen his words. “For starters, you shouldn’t know that.”

And that, yeah, Yahaba knew. He was about to apologize again, a few times, maybe, when Shirabu continued. “It’s fine, though – I should be more careful about private conversations held in public.” Shirabu looked a little self-deprecating, then, and Yahaba needed that expression gone. Now.

“NO. This is what… what _this_ is about.” He gestured vaguely to himself, and had to keep from wincing, again, because he should be more elaborate when he talked. Seriously, he needed to work on that. “I don’t want you – me, us, whoever – to have to keep it all hidden. Like that. It’s not fair. Which is why I wanted to bring a man. You shouldn’t have to keep it all private. _It’s not fair_ ,” and it really, really wasn’t. But before he could keep talking, he took in Shirabu’s raised eyebrow, and stayed quiet.

“I really just meant I didn’t want anyone in my business, no matter what it’s about,” Shirabu started, and there it was again, that pang of something not quite like guilt, but close, that Yahaba felt in his chest so often, because he’d had to remind himself too many times not to just _assume things._ “You’re right, though.”

Gaze calculating, arms crossed, Shirabu stepped a bit closer to Yahaba, and now he could see an old sort of tiredness in Shirabu’s eyes, and this, _this_ he knew how to interpret.

“I wasn’t planning on taking a date at all,” Shirabu stated, and Yahaba felt himself recoil a little bit. But he went on, “you just planted an awful little idea in my head, though.”

Yahaba, unsure of himself, stepped forward as well. This idea of his, it might have been awful, but it also had to be cruel, or impossible, or brilliant, because this was Shirabu, and in that moment, he looked very determined. And a determined Shirabu, Yahaba knew, was dangerous in every sense of the word. It was also an exhilarating thing.

“Care to share with the class?” he breathed.

Slowly, agonizingly, a small grin formed itself on Shirabu’s lips. His eyes locked with Yahaba’s, and for a small moment, Yahaba’s breath caught. Shirabu’s gaze was more intense than Yahaba had ever felt coming from him. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“We’re going to be each other’s dates,” Shirabu said, and now Yahaba was confused, but he still couldn’t breathe properly when Shirabu added, with an air of finality, “and if they don’t like it, they lose their two best setters – and the season will be over.” 

For a few terrifying seconds, neither of them said anything. There was a lot that Yahaba needed to address, though. Like how Shirabu had just acknowledged his skill for the first time, essentially calling Yahaba as good as – or, well, second to, probably – Shirabu himself, in terms of skill and value as a volleyball player. And like how the banquet might just cost them their scholarships, their future careers – but that Shirabu suggested they would be in the same boat, if that happened… If it was chivalry or genuine shared hatred of the system forcing them to stay put and pretend to be straight, Yahaba did not know, but he had seen the dangerous edge in Shirabu’s eyes, heard it in his voice, noticed it in his aura. How his stance had become familiar, over the course of their conversation, how they were standing as close as they ever had without being seconds away from a fight.

Yahaba found himself saying, “You are insane.” 

Shirabu’s grin did not falter. “It was your idea, you were just about to be an idiot about it.”

And, well, yeah. Outing himself that way, that had, in fact, been Yahaba’s original idea. As Shirabu had said himself, Yahaba had given him an awful little idea, by telling him that.

“Do you really think they’d cut us both like that?” He was really asking; _do you think they’ll put their homophobia over their need to finish this season?_ With a terrible internal shudder, Yahaba guessed that this was a thing that connected them; they both knew what hateful people were capable of. Hatred, like love, was one of those silly little things that could be bottomless. 

Shirabu stared back into Yahaba’s anxious eyes with his own determined ones and said with a certainty that could save a thousand lives, “I think they’ll be forced to choose what matters. And as players, we matter more to them than as queers.”

Shirabu had said that last word with forced disdain, obviously imitating an authoritative shitbag, and Yahaba wondered if he could be right. Maybe, just maybe, their need for a good team – and, really, they _were_ the best setters on the team, who was he kidding, the season would be over in a blink without them – maybe it was more important, in the end. Something about Shirabu, in that moment, felt so surreal, his absolute certainty being the only real thing to Yahaba, so steady, in that moment, that Yahaba felt like he had no choice but to trust Shirabu.

“Okay.” Yahaba needed to look away from Shirabu’s intense eyes, his sharp grin. He didn’t. Never had he seen Shirabu as a real person, not entirely, as opposed to a somewhat antagonistic, terrifyingly skilled player on his team, and now, it felt like the two of them had just met for the first time. Shirabu’s eyes said,  _pleasure to meet you,_ and Yahaba could only hope that his own were answering in kind. Ferociously. He really, really needed to look sure of himself, in that moment.

“Well, then.” Yahaba said, his gaze still holding Shirabu’s. “Will you be my date for the banquet?”


End file.
